Sludge
In a world where a terrible event occured, a couple farms the disaster’s edges to cultivate a comfortable life. Their peaceful life takes a turn when a new visitor comes to their banks.
“I think we found more fruit!” Sylf shouted.
Krin poked his head through the door, mixing dough in a bowl. The waft of flour drifted through the crack. “That’s good to hear,” Krin called back. “Do you know what kind it is?”
“No idea,” Sylf said, walking up from the muddy banks. Her hair was a whisper above her ears, her strands hanging on for dear life on her raisin-textured scalp. In her arms were a range of glossy fruits, deep red in texture with a wine-like glow. “They might taste of… ah, what’s the food…”
“Cherries?”
“Yes, that’s it. Cherries.” She unloaded the fruits onto the wooden table, darting her hands around so they do not roll off the sides. She plucked one from the middle of the pile, eyeing it with a cursory glance. Then with a swift movement, she unclipped a device from her belt to scan it. With a blip, the device radiated a comforting green hue.
“Didn’t you test it at the banks before bringing them all here?” Krin asked, patting down the dough on the kitchen side.
“Yes, but you never know. We didn’t want to have a repeat of the Chiadric Incident.” She shuddered at the thought.
“True. Don’t think our bathroom has been the same since.” Krin chuckled to himself and took a peek outside through the kitchen window.
The weather was clear, and the muddy sea swarmed with an eclectic miasma of dips, splatters and peaks. The sea was calmer than usual; both Krin and Sylf had seen a range of objects materialise then disintegrate in a matter of seconds in the distance. Once, Krin saw a whole sea barge lift itself from the sea before it shattered into a torrent of chrysanthemums that drifted in the wind. Another time, Sylf swore she saw a tower that exploded upwards, unfurl wings, then the wings themselves sprouted towers along its ridges into a fractal pattern – before the integrity of the monolith disintegrated into a cascade of obsidian-like splinters.
Early in the disaster, Krin and Sylf decided to call the rising sea the Murk. The name fit snugly. The gloopy muck had a grey texture that rippled across its surface, lurching then dipping in random patterns. Every once in a while there was an iridescent shimmer, and something more solid appeared on the banks of their little home. Some things remained; forks, a copy of Ender’s Game, a Roman vase, and a single bar of gold.
Or, in today’s case, a new type of fruit.
Sylf took a small bite from one, and muffled a low groan.
“Like cherries?” Krin guessed, focusing on the dough.
“No,” Sylf said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s like a strawberry, but less sweet. It’s good. We should try to grow it.”
Krin smiled. “Let’s add it to the bread I am making, then. And sure, why not grow it? That peach tree looks a bit… lonely. We should give it a friend in the grove.”
Sylf nodded. “Absolutely. I’ll see if I can find it in our cookbook collection. You never know.”
Krin didn’t respond out of politeness. The pair had two cookbooks on the dusty shelf, and neither has been helpful. One was left over from before the disaster, a dull set of instructions from a pasty-faced celebrity chef with a disarming grin. And the other was in another alien language, with a worrying image of an innocent-looking cat on its front. That one was generated by the Murk, and was as useful as the set of keys which plopped out of a sludgy bubble several weeks prior.
It was a routine. One of them found a new item in the banks, processed it, then implemented it into their ramshackle cottage. Sylf had her sofa in the corner, with a range of baubles and knick knacks on a side table. And Krin had his side as well, looking over books from before and after the disaster. The Murk kept generating fruits and food that were safe to eat; a stroke of luck, and it helped them both cultivate a new passion for the culinary arts.
Once the dough cooked, using an oven that ran via a generator at the back, the two sat into their usual places. They both went to the porch, food in hand, and munched down the hot and steamy meal. Both Krin and Sylf glanced at each other, swallowed, and smiled with a deep warmth to match. As they ate, they scanned the murky horizon for more items that may materialise, or things to adorn their home.
No-one else lived with them. The small island with their cottage was surrounded by the Murk, as it slowly moved and belched new objects into existence. The Murk stopped rising a few years ago, and any attempts to cross its oil-glossed surface ended in disintegration. Always.
So for now, Sylf and Krin forged a new life. One pressed with the same contours and rims of a well-sat sofa, shaped for them both perfectly. And with a wordless camaraderie, both settled into another evening of settled comfort.
One day, Sylf combed the beach for new objects to bring back home. She saw a bottle of wine bob up to the surface earlier in the day and got very excited, extending her hook towards it with a direct focus. But as soon as the bottle popped up, it then uncorked with a loud bang that released a robin into the sky. As Sylf sighed in frustration, the bird rolled into the shape of a snail that then landed back into the Murk with a soft plop.
Sylf wandered down the banks with a frown, fighting the lethargic depression of missing her first glass of wine in years. Her eyes combed the banks, with beach of her steps causing her bag of found valuables to jingle like a set of bottlecaps in a case.
As she walked down over a small incline, she heard a noise. A guttural choke, almost as if someone vomited water.
Sylf stood still. It was a human sound – very human – and the kind she hasn’t heard in a very, very long time. Her legs rooted her in place, as her brain whirred in motion. A second vomit, ending in what sounded like a gush of liquid splattering onto the ground, propelled her legs to move.
On the banks of the Murk was a naked man, lying in the fetal position and covered in a gloss-like wetness. The man whimpered and groaned as a circle of vomit rolled under his form. He was thin and brown-skinned, hair cascading down his head as long curls.
Sylf slowly walked up to him, placing her bag on the ground as she crept towards the visitor.
“Hey,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “Can you hear me?” She then paused. “Can you also understand me?”
The man gave a soft gulp of air, and he shuddered as though he swallowed sand. Then a loud grunt came from his lips – perhaps a sign of affirmation, or something else.
Sylf still crept forward, close enough to touch him. She then lowered her right hand onto his shoulder, lightly, and ignoring the acidic smell of the Murk and vomit. The man responded with a slight movement of his shoulders, then peeked up with a set of dark brown eyes, directly at Sylf’s own.
“Can you understand me?” Sylf asked again, keeping a neutral tone.
The man grunted again. Then he seemed to roll his tongue between his teeth, almost as if he was testing the edges of his mouth. Then he gave a soft rush of air that ended with a soft hiss. He then repeated it, louder this time.
Sylf then realised what the man was struggling to say: “Yes.”
“Right!” Sylf said, masking her shock with brisk movement. She took off her coat and covered the man’s shoulders. It was a little too small for him, but it masked his nakedness and gave him some warmth. “We’ll need to get you home. Can you walk?”
It took an hour to get the man on his legs. He kept shuddering, almost as if he did not know how to walk. But then his legs seemed to gain more strength, or the man seemed to remember how to do it. He then slowly rose, like a flower beginning to blossom as it was buffeted by a torrential wind. But eventually he stood on his own legs, leaning on Sylf as they made their way home.
The island was small, but it still took them a few hours to get home. The man lacked the strength to continue for long, and kept sitting down to recuperate his strength. Sylf took these opportunities to mother him, giving him a set of snacks which she brought for the trip – leftover bread from yesterday. The man chewed on the fruit delicately, almost savouring the light sweetness. He barely spoke a word, by Sylf recognised a subtle nod of thanks.
Eventually they made their way home. Krin must have spotted them from the window, because he opened the door and rushed towards them. He smelled faintly of flour.
“Who is he?” Krin asked, shock radiating from his words like sparks.
“I don’t know,” Sylf responded. She indicated towards the stranger’s other side, and Krin responded by lifting him by the arms. The three of them stepped towards the home at a quicker pace than before. Sylf gave a sigh of fatigued relief.
“Is he from another place? Or…”
“I am unsure.” Sylf said, glancing at him. “But I suspect he actually came from the Murk.”
Krin gave a soft whistle. “That’s…”
“Impossible, yes.” Sylf then furrowed her brow. “Or at least, we thought it was impossible. Let’s help him, then work out what to do.”
The two of them settled the stranger into a bed. It was dusty, as no visitors came to their isolated home – but the sheets were clean, and it accepted the new body with a spring-like thud. The man groaned again, and Krin pulled the duvet over his shoulders. Sylf put a plate of bread next to him, then they both left the room, keeping the door open to keep an eye on him.
The stranger slept soundly for hours, with soft snores that rattled around the house with a soft murmur. Every half an hour, either Krin or Sylf peeked into the room to check up on him. And again he was unmoved, a pool of saliva dropping from his half-open mouth.
Krin and Sylf did not do much that day. They sat by the porch towards the Murk, with nothing in hand and deep in thought.
“A new friend,” Sylf said, laughing at herself. “I never would have…”
“You say… friend,” Krin said, drawing out the last word. “We know nothing about him. You sure he speaks our language?”
“Yes,” Sylf responded, nodding. “I am convinced he said yes, and he knows about typical cues like nodding. I think he was born from the Murk with a… set knowledge of certain things, somehow, and is now on our banks. Somehow.”
Krin steepled his fingers. “Even if that is true – which is a big if – we haven’t seen life last long from the Murk,” Krin said. “Life tends to leap up then die within a few seconds. The fact that the man is still alive is…”
“A miracle.”
“Yes,” Krin said, looking at Sylf. “A miracle.” He then stood up and stretched, arms reaching the sky. “He will need taking care of. We will work closely together to make sure he has a good shot at life. You feel ready?”
Sylf stood up and glanced at the horizon. A particularly large bubble grew far away, which then popped almost as quickly. “I am unsure I am ready,” she said. “But we’ve gone through some rough patches before.” She then smiled at herself. “But it’s not like we have a choice. Let’s give it a try.”
The stranger gained strength over several days, with the plodding pace of a hibernating bear. He stepped out of the bedroom, and Krin rummaged in his wardrobe for clothes that vaguely fit his skinny form. A shirt emblazoned with a punk band called Father Brian’s Massive Party sagged on his form like a heavy curtain.
To their surprise, the man did not disintegrate at any point, or morph. The man remained the same, alive and well.
Sylf took him to the kitchen and fed him foods that were high in carbs, with a dash of sugar to sweeten it down. The man ate in small bites, but he gained momentum with time as he increased his portion sizes. He would then roll away back to bed and snooze for another half of the day, lost in whatever dreams he slipped into.
Over time the stranger became stronger, moving with more speed and eating with purpose. Then on the fourth day, Sylf noticed that he was trying to move his lips with a guttural noise coming from his throat. She sat patiently, not speaking, as if awaiting a train to go past.
Then finally, he made a noise. “Thnk.” He then tried again, after a light cough. “Thank… you,” he said. The last word sounded like it came out with sticky barbs, but it was clear nonetheless.
Sylf and Krin looked at each other and smiled. “We might be able to string together a conversation,” Krin said. “We’re not far away from talking about the growing practices of herbs. Maybe.”
Sylf lightly held the stranger on the shoulder. “Well done,” she said. “Do you have a name?”
The stranger looked up. Sylf saw a light in them that was not there on the beach; a playful glimmer where a splinter of intellect danced behind the pupils. Once again he tried to speak, but the throat fought back with the friction of sandpaper.
After downing some water, the stranger licked his lips. “Fa… Fara…” He coughed again, then cleared his throat. “… Farali.”
“Farali?” Krin asked.
The man nodded. “Farali.” He rolled the words in his mouth, repeating them, as if he was tasting a new dish. “Farali… Farali… Farali…”
Sylf sat next to him and laid a hand on top of his. She was patient for the last few days taking care of him, but her curiosity took the better of her.
“Farali,” she asked, with a calm demeanour. “Do you… remember what happened before landing on our shores?”
Farali looked up at her. He thought back, his eyes rolling towards the ceiling. After a few seconds, he shook his head. Krin glanced at Sylf and creased his eyebrows.
“Ok,” Sylf said, maintaining her composure. “But you also have knowledge. You know some words, your name. You understand us. Are you sure you have no idea what happened before?”
Again, Farali looked around the room, lost in the woods of his thoughts. Sylf swore that if she listened carefully, she would hear the gears of his minds rumbling in slow motion. But again, after a short while, he shook his head.
“Well,” Krin said, patting the table. “Looks like the Murk gave birth to a human being with memories. Which is… uhm… that’s a first.”
Sylf nodded. She ignored the implications with the fake indifference of passing a housefly. One for the philosophers, she thought.
“Maybe so.” She then stood up and smiled at Farali. “And I think we have ourselves a new roommate.”
Farali settled into the new flow of life quickly. Once he realised how Sylf and Krin passed the days, Farali came along to the edges of the island to peek along the Murk, finding trinkets and baubles as they plod through the grit. He carried a large sack on his back, with Sylf keeping a close eye on him.
“And once we find food, we give it a small scan with this little device to see if it is edible!” She picked up what seemed to be a carrot. The device buzzed with the hum of a small hive, before it blurted out a short alarm and released a red light. Sylf shrugged and tossed it back into the Murk.
“And what if you eat it?” Farali said. His speech improved quickly, almost as if he unlocked a deep basement with a hoard of words to pluck and distribute.
“Bad things, probably. We never risked it.” Sylf walked down the beach and picked up another item. This time it was a gold coin, with an unrecognisable figure on it. She brushed away the dirt, and the words John Wheatley rimmed the corners. She shrugged again and tossed it into Farali’s sack, making a soft clink as it hit the bottom.
The duo wandered down the beach for some time. Farali found a moisturising cream, with an overly positive woman on the front giving a thumbs up. Sylf found a new cooking pot, made with cast iron and only lightly rusting in one corner. At one point they came across an entire television, broad and glassy-faced and in near pristine condition. But with its bulk and size – a 65-inch monster of a set – they decided to leave it behind.
Near the end of the day, Farali looked towards the horizon and slowly asked a new question. “And you do this… every day?”
Sylf paused and looked at him. He still looked at the horizon, the Murk lurching a little in his sightline. “Yes,” she said, slowly. “Why?”
Farali turned to her and then looked away. “Have you thought about… leaving?”
Sylf gestured towards the Murk. She suspected that the question would come up, with the unenviable surprise of a burst pipe. “We tried to, a long time ago. Whatever the Murk touches starts to disintegrate or transform again. We had a boat appear, once, and we tried pushing it out to the Murk to test it. It disintegrated.” She let the dark memory fold back into the folds of her mind, buried and left behind. She then shrugged and widened her gesture. “So we’ve formed a home here. It’s a comfortable life. And it’s completely ours.”
There was a pause, and Farali looked again at the Murk. After a few moments, a few words plopped out. “But… this is it, then?”
Sylf turned her head to the side, with a soft wince. “What?”
“You are here, collecting debris from the shores, and not even trying to leave here? What if there is help beyond the horizon? Or perhaps above us, high in the sky? Why not even try, or keep trying? Why…”
Farali struggled to find the words, but Sylf felt that it was not because of the word’s complexity. Then after a time, Farali said, “Why did you give up?”
Sylf stood still. The silence hung heavy in the cold air. Then she sighed and looked towards the Murk, like Farali. “Because we’re comfortable,” she said. “It’s completely our space, it’s calm, and it’s nice. Why risk it all for the potential of freedom, when what we have now is good enough?”
Farali did not respond. He stood still for a little longer, nodded, then continued walking down the beach, gazing at the ground for new items that would have belched from the Murk. Sylf followed on, and had an unsettled feeling in her stomach. A feeling that only appears when something unresolved crested the mind’s sea.
The darkness was punctuated by the sound of hammering. Krin woke up first, fumbling for a light as he rolled out of bed. “What is that noise,” he murmured to himself, wiping his bleary eyes. He plodded through the house, his hole-ridden slippers padding across the carpet.
Eventually he followed the source of the noise and came to the garage, where a lot of the bigger debris is stored. Krin opened the door and peeked inside.
Farali was working on what seemed to be a boat, a clutter of metals and objects tied together by glue, string and (probably) willpower. Farali held a hammer, the light of a nearby lamp showing that his skin was lightly glistening with sweat. He hammered the boat, nailing one of Krin’s spare nails into the boat’s side.
“What are you doing?” Krin asked. “It’s the middle of the night. Why not work on… this… thing tomorrow?”
“Can’t sleep,” Farali responded, directly and with no hesitation.
“Right,” Krin said. He hadn’t had his patience tested in years. “Can you, perhaps, keep it quieter? We’re trying to sleep.”
“Ok,” Farali responded, his attention focused on the boat’s side.
Krin eyed him, then shook his head. “Thank you.” Krin then turned away, but his fatigue drifted to reveal a small spark of curiosity under its heavy covers. He turned back to Farali, leaning against the door frame. “Farali,” he asked, casually. “Why are you working on a boat?”
Farali turned to Krin, and gave a rare smile. His teeth were slightly yellow with age, even though he was born a few short weeks ago. “I want to leave. I want to try. And when I decided on that, I can’t focus on anything else.”
Krin nodded, like as though it was a completely normal thing to talk about a suicide mission. “Right, right,” he said. “And what about the… uhm… disintegration side of the plan? As soon as your boat touches the Murk, it will disappear.”
Farali smiled even wider. “I have a plan,” he said.
Sylf saw him by the beach the next morning. He dragged the boat near the Murk, and he sat by the sands for a long time. He stared out, as if waiting for something. Sylf went up to him then sat by his side, which he barely registered with a flutter of his eyes.
When she sat down, she noticed two objects by his side. An extendable arm, with a set of claws on one end, with the handle wrapped in thick leather. And a simple paintbrush, with bristles that looked old and tired. Both items were from Krin’s garage, and Sylf knew that Farali did not ask permission to take them.
“What are you doing?” Sylf asked, with the polite air of asking about their day. In truth, she heard about what Krin saw, and it has since grown into a tar-like ball that sat in her core.
“Waiting for an object,” Farali said, still staring at the Murk.
“Why?”
As if in response, a new object lurched from the Murk and landed with a thud on the beach. In that moment, Farali ran to the object with the flutter of moths to a light, outreaching the extendable arm to grab it. When he ran back with the object in the metallic hand, Sylf saw that it was a simple piece of wood, still glistening on one corner with a fresh oil-like substance from the Murk.
Farali skidded to a halt by the boat. He picked up the paintbrush and used it to pick up the oil on the wood’s surface, before splattering it against the boat’s side. But as soon as it happened, it was over. A thin film was layered on the boat, which then quickly dried away.
“I worked something out,” Farali said. “The Murk has an oil-like layer on its surface. I think the oil is why some objects stabilise. That’s why I was covered in it when you found me, yes? So if we coat the boat in the object, thicker than anything the Murk can produce, then we can leave.”
Sylf nodded, feigning polite interest to cover her worry. “That could work,” she said. She then gestured towards the boat. “But it will take a long time to do. The boat is relatively big, objects appear randomly, and the actual amount of oil can be… limiting. You will be here all the time, collecting oil and items to use to paint onto the boat. And that’s just for one layer. Based on what you’re saying, you will need lots and lots of layers…”
Farali grasped Sylf on the shoulder. It was the first time he physically touched her by his own will, rather than she comforting him, and it made her back stand upright. “I know,” he said. “But if I have nothing more to do, I can focus on it.”
“But you can do other things,” she snapped, more quickly than she intended. The ball inside her unravelled, string by string. “You can relax! Find a hobby! Focus on living, with us! And not take up something which could kill you!”
Farali shook his head. “I am not interested,” he said. His tone remained the same. “Let me focus on this. I am enjoying it.”
Sylf looked at his eyes again. His playful intellect was still there, but it was now rimmed with a mania that darkened his eyes. She remembered the past, where Krin and Sylf were so excited to find a boat and then tried to set it out. That disappointment after its failure was catastrophic. But she also did not want to quench that passion that Farali showed, that deep sense of drive which brought life to his movements.
For now, she will humour him.
Sylf patted the arm that rested on her shoulders. “Go for it,” she said. “And if you spot food, bring it back to us.”
Farali worked on the boat for weeks. He stood on the coast, an owl casting its gaze across his realm, ready to swoop in if an object plops into existence. Sometimes it was a rod, while other times it was a larger object that he could not drag quickly enough to the boat. At one point there was a heavy oak table, which dried as he heaved it with his thin shoulders.
Sylf and Krin watched the routine every day, sorting out items at home while scouring the beach for new things to use. During a quiet morning, while Farali’s attention was enraptured by the coast, Sylf and Krin wandered further away for a quiet word.
“He is mad,” Krin said, shaking his head. “I wish he saw sense. It’s pointless. He must know it’s pointless. Why not live here?”
“I know,” Sylf responded. “I can’t work it out either. He came from the Murk, and clearly he has some memories, manufactured or otherwise. But he clearly wants to go for it. And I don’t think we are in any position to make him turn away, honestly.”
Krin folded his arms. “That much is true,” he said. “We can’t manhandle him, and if he is obsessed, so be it.” Krin then turned to Sylf and lowered his eyes, ever so slightly. “And I think you know what he might ask…”
Sylf sighed, rubbing her face with her leathered hands. “I’ll say no.”
Krin nodded, his shoulders sagging slightly in relief. “Same. I will say no, too.”
The day of embarking arrived. Farali’s boat sat on the beach, shimmering in the sun with a golden-like glow. A jumble of items were bolted together to form its hull, all in a range of items and materials. Sylf had no idea how it hung together so well, almost as if Farali’s sheer willpower emanated from him to keep the boat together.
Sylf and Krin declined to embark onto the boat. Farali turned away as he nodded in turn, but he leapt back into the project almost as quickly. Sylf turned to Krin and raised an eyebrow, sharing a knowing look.
But in the meantime, the duo wanted to ensure Farali had the best chance possible. Sylf packed a range of foods for the unknown journey; long-lasting bread that can weather the seas if protected, and energy balls that can last weeks at a time. Krin also cooked a farewell cake of sorts; a cake using peaches from their grove, precious and loved by them over the years. Karali accepted the gifts with grace.
By this time, Farali had gained more muscle, his toned arms poking through his larger clothes. He stood by his boat and faced Sylf and Krin, who both bore positive expressions that masked their morose hearts.
“Well,” Farali said, slapping the boat’s side. “I think it is time.”
Sylf walked up to Farali and gave a light hug. “We will miss you, Farali. You’ve brought life here, and it was good to have you around.”
Farali hugged back, tightly. “You have no idea how thankful I am. Thank you. Thank you.”
Krin walked up and gave Farali a tight grip on his shoulder. “Good luck. You have this.”
Farali cast his eyes to the horizon. “I hope so,” he murmured.
After some final goodbyes that danced on the precipice of awkwardness, Farali pushed the boat through the sand. Krin and Sylf watched Farali, holding their breaths. Their fingers pried along their sides and found one another, and they clasped hands as if the tension would help them ground their fears.
Eventually it met the Murk. The boat did not seem to be changed. Farali noticed and, elated, gave another big push. The boat started to bob up, slightly. And with a final heave, Farali gave a final push as he leapt up into the vessel.
The boat did not disintegrate. It lightly bobbed on the surface, though it was almost inert like a grape on a viscous drink.
Krin and Sylf tightened their grip.
Farali gave a large whoop. He took out some makeshift oars that were glazed in the same oil, and started to row. To and fro. To and fro. The boat moved slowly and surely, parting the Murk with a slow trudge. Farali’s confidence grew, and he rowed a little harder.
“I’ll get help!” Farali yelled. The light seemed to reflect a small twinkle in his bearded face, rolling down his left cheek. “I promise I will find help for you!”
Krin’s voice was hoarse, almost as if it delicately crept out. “You must!” Krin shouted. Farali gave a thumbs up and kept rowing, becoming a smaller shadow on the Murk’s surface.
Then there was a small spark on the edge of the boat’s side.
Sylf had an intake of breath.
Then another spark.
“Come back!” Sylf shouted, a shock of saliva splaying out.
Farali also noticed the sparks, initially shocked to immobilisation. Sylf narrowed her eyes and noticed that the boat was then rumbling, and a look of deep fear seemed to capture Farali and shake him. With a frenzied tumble of limbs he used the oars to try and turn the boat, though the vessel’s movements were sickly and slow.
The sparks turned into shoots like mini comets, and a bed of vines seemed to erupt from its bottom, which then died as it shot out in all directions.
The screaming started. Farali let out a continuous and horrified yell, piercing the calm sky. The Murk may have pierced the bottom, because Farali’s legs shot to the rim of the boat, while he still desperately tried to row, and row, and row. Colours continued to stream up, the licks of a rainbow-like fire kissing his body.
The boat sank downwards, slowly then a little faster, as the vines and colors shot out further. Farali arched his body upwards as much as possible, avoiding the liquid as much as he could. His body visibly shuddered in exertion.
Sylf and Krin stood still. Both were unable to help, as the boat was too far away. They watched the disaster unfold, rooted down. Krin shuddered, just a little.
Then the Murk touched Farali. It enveloped his legs and elbows first, and seemed to climb up his body. Farali screamed more, his body morphing into a new and terrifying shape. Sylf heard the snapping of twigs, and an arm contorted into an unnatural angle as it morphed into a feather-plucked wing, bloody and seeping pus. He yelled in deep, deep pain.
Farali’s yell morphed into the squeak of a fox, which then grumbled into the agonising groan of a bear. And as his face reached the Murk, that yell became a drowning gurgle.
The last thing Krin and Sylf saw was the tip of his hair go into the waves.
Silence was all that remained. Not the boat, nor evidence of Farali’s attempt. It was calm again, as if nothing had happened.
Krin and Sylf stared out, hands tightly bound to one another as if letting go will let them drift towards grief. They stood together, quiet, for a long time.
“What have you found this time?”
Sylf walked in with a beaming expression. “I think we found…” she drummed her free hand on the table. “… Chocolate!”
Krin turned around immediately. “You’re serious?”
“I am serious!” She laid down a bar on the table. It was dark, with an unknown pattern on its surface – perhaps a dog, or an ugly cat. A little part of the beach’s dirt was on one side. “Marked as safe by the device. We haven’t had chocolate for so, so long…”
“We haven’t!” Krin smiled, then looked at it with a hungry glint in his eyes. “If we clean it… do you mind if we…”
Sylf nodded immediately. “One bite. But let’s save the rest for a cake we can decide on. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Almost immediately he ran the chocolate briefly under the sink and gave it a soft rub with a cloth. He then broke off two small pieces. He handed one to Sylf, and the other to himself. The duo cheered with the chunks then popped them into their mouths. Sylf released a slow murmur, while Krin beamed as he chewed.
“Delicious,” Krin said in between bites.
As Sylf chewed, she looked through the window towards the Murk again. The sea level had risen a little, but only slowly. And new surprises still rise up, every once in a while. She chewed on, deep in the warmth of comfort. The memory of Farali drifted back into the darkness of her mind, alongside the catastrophe of their own boat attempt so long ago.
Why even bother to leave?
